“Bites his nails,” Starbuck explained, seeing Maitland staring at the three stumps.

Maitland grimaced, then stepped forward with an outstretched hand. Swynyard seemed surprised at the offered gesture, but responded willingly enough, then nodded at Starbuck. “Good morning, Nate.”

Starbuck ignored the greeting, jerking his head toward Maitland instead. “Man’s called Lieutenant-Colonel Maitland. Got orders for me, but says he has to see you first.”

“You’ve seen me,” Swynyard said to Maitland, “so give Nate his orders.”

Instead Maitland led his horse to a nearby tree and tied its reins to a drooping branch. He unbuckled a saddlebag and took out a packet of papers. “You remember me, Colonel?” he called over his shoulder as he rebuckled the bag.

“Alas, no.” Swynyard sounded suspicious, wary of someone from his old, pre-Christian life. “Should I remember you?”

“Your pa sold some slaves to my pa. Twenty years back.”

Swynyard, relieved that one of his old sins was not being revisited on him, relaxed. “You must have been a boy, Colonel.”

“I was, but I remember your pa telling my pa that the slaves were good workers. They weren’t. They were no damn good.”

“In the trade,” Swynyard said, “they always say that slaves are no better than their masters.” Swynyard had spoken equably, though the words made it clear he had taken as great a dislike to Maitland as Starbuck had. There was an assumption of Privilege about Maitland that grated on both men, or perhaps the irritation came from the incursion into their lives of a man who so obviously spent his time far from the bullets.

“Lucifer’s bringing some coffee, Colonel,” Starbuck said to Swynyard.

The Colonel hospitably fetched a pair of camp chairs from his tent and invited Maitland to sit. He offered Starbuck an upturned crate and set another as a table. “So where are these orders, Colonel?” he asked Maitland.

“Got ’em right here,” Maitland said, putting the papers on the crate and covering them with his hat to stop either Swynyard or Starbuck from plucking them up. He took off his damp cloak to reveal a uniform that was immaculately cut and decorated with a double line of brass buttons polished to a high gloss. The twin gold stars on each of his shoulders seemed bright enough to be made of gold, while the braiding on his sleeves appeared to be fashioned from gold thread. Starbuck’s coat was threadbare, had no gold or brass or even cloth marks of rank, but only white salt marks where sweat had dried into the material’s weave. Maitland brushed the chair seat then twitched up his pants with their elegant yellow stripes before sitting. He lifted the hat, put the sealed papers aside, and handed another single sheet to Swynyard. “I am reporting to you as ordered, Colonel,” he said very formally.

Swynyard unfolded the sheet, read it, blinked, then read it again. He looked up at Maitland, then back to the paper. “You done any fighting, Colonel?” he asked in what struck Starbuck as a bitter voice.